Falling For You
by Eberryl
Summary: It's a month after the Almost-Apocalypse and Heaven isn't very happy with Aziraphale... How does a 6000 year old angel get aquainted with being totally human? Especially when he won't admit to Crowley that the whole thing is ... sort of his fault?
1. Cause and Effect

Aziraphale frowned at the note he found folded neatly in with the usual bills and advertisments of his daily mail, slipped beneath the door of the bookshop. It was short. 2 lines, printed quite neatly on recycled paper.* It read,  
  
Aziraphale,  
  
We request you set up a contact circle. Now if you please.  
  
The angel swallowed. It had been nearly a month since the Almost-Apocalypse, and since then, Heaven had seemed to have been pretending the whole messy business hadn't happened. Whatever could they want of him now?  
  
But that was the way of Heaven. Ineffable. And so he did as he was asked, bustling about for the candles idly, if not a tad bit nervously. Of course, what should he have to be nervous about? This was Heaven, after all. Not Hell, or... Or Earth, for that matter.  
  
It didn't take long to put everything into order, though, he noted, the candles, which had previously been cream colored and unscented, were now quite a brilliant shade of red, and smelled faintly of apples. Ah well. Couldn't expect the lad to know *just* how everything had been, could you?  
  
Ceremoniously, he lit them quickly and stood inside the lighted chalk marking. "Hullo?" He asked the ceiling questioningly.  
There was a pause. And then, "Aziraphale."  
  
"Yes." He admitted, lacing his long fingers in front of him. Resisting the urge to tensely batt at a single strand of tawny brown which had caught it's self in his unnecessary glasses.  
"Aziraphale." The multi-stranded voice of the Metatron twined in the air through the glittering dust particles like liquid gold, making the angel flinch. "Lately, some... Things, have come to our attention."  
  
"I, see…"  
  
"Some, rather troubling things."  
  
"Such, as?" Aziraphale ventured. Not entirely sure he wanted to know.  
  
The inflection of the voices in his voice changed abruptly. Abandoning the air it had held of dancing with words. Becoming blunt. "Crawley."  
  
The Brunette felt his heart jump into his throat. Though he could hardly imagine why. What on Ea--Heav- *anywhere* could they mean by--? They weren't going to hurt him, were they? And *why* should he be so worried?   
His calm demeanor didn't change, however, and he answered, "I'm not sure I understand."  
  
"It's quite simple." The Metatron quipped. "You allowed yourself to be guided by a demon, Aziraphale."  
  
"What-?"  
  
"Unless you're going to tell me that throwing a wrench into the Apocalypse was *your* idea?"  
  
"No-"  
  
"Many members of the heavenly host saw the two of you together."  
  
"But-"  
  
"So there by, working with a demon, you allowed yourself to be influenced by one."  
  
"I-"  
  
"Led by one."  
  
"Please-"  
  
"In short," the Metatron finished triumphantly, with only the barest trace of smugness in his voice, "Tempted by one."  
  
Aziraphale's mouth fell open. There was nothing he could say. His deep cerulean eyes went wide and, against his will, his bottom lip trembled. Ever so slightly. Fear flooded his veins like a drug.  
  
He was going to fall.  
  
"We don't really require an angel such as that, Aziraphale."  
  
If he had had enough ability to think it, he might have thought, that perhaps, The Metatron had still been a tad upset about his disobedience in general. And that this might have been a stretch. And that he was stuffy, but hardly cruel. But thinking was the furthest thing from his mind.  
  
"So," The voice of Heaven blithely continued, as the angel steeled himself for the worst, "You will remain human."  
  
"P-pardon?" He asked, feeling at once relief and a new wave of fear. Allowing one azure eye to open.  
  
The Metatron hesitated, and when he spoke again there was the distinct air of pouting. Which Aziraphale missed utterly for his current state. "You have your shop, a way of support. You have a place to stay. Currently we have no need of your... Survices. So, as you have a perfectly good way of caring for yourself, Aziraphale, we leave you human."  
  
"En... tirely?"  
  
"Entirely."  
  
"It... it's temporary?"  
  
"Perhaps. That is to be decided."  
  
"Oh." The angel took a breath, eyes still wide. He was utterly terrified, but relieved he wasn't going to fall. And in the most professional voice he could manage, he replied, "I see."  
  
"So shall we." The Metatron clipped in his many voices. "So, Aziraphale, shall we."  
  
  
* As could be concluded from the twigs and bits of flowers and what not caught in the paper.  
~~~  
Akk. Re-uploaded this chapter. Stupid computer formatting made the thing all weird on ff.net. Oh well. I also realized that I completely* spaced on the foot-note in this chapter. Geh... 


	2. Problems...

The light faded and left him, like a door being closed in the depths of the night, sheltering a lamp behind. Aziraphale looked after it for a long time. When he found he could move again, it was slow and jerky. Unpracticed and undeveloped.  
  
He looked about The Bookshop. Nothing had changed. Nothing but the feeling of being utterly, and completely, alone. It was like... It was... being cut away from an endless, ageless tie after a million years. And... It broke his heart.  
  
He suddenly felt very empty, and, seeking comfort anywhere he might find it, he wandered among the shelves and shelves of books. They had changed when the boy replaced them. Some the same, but many, very, different. Some he'd never even heard of, and oddly, that pleased him greatly.  
  
Slowly, he'd begun to sell what he'd been granted and buy back what he could find of what he'd had. But every so often, Aziraphale found one which was worth taking a second look at. Like this one, he decided, removing a small, neatly bound book from where it was wedged between two much thicker tomes. It was covered in leather. Red as the apple-candles he'd used in the circle. On it's cover was inscribed in unnecessarily curled letters, "Would You Believe I Can't Remember?"*  
  
Blinking at it, he allowed himself a small, half hearted smile, and took his meager prize to the back room, where he settled a few minutes later on the bed with a cup of hot cocoa.  
  
The cocoa, in and of itself, was a rather good omen for the book. Most frequently, whenever he felt the urge to make the thick silk textured drink** he completely forgot it even existed by the fourth page. It seemed it might be a romance. Or a comedy. Neither of which were particularly Aziraphale's fancy. However, the best thing at the moment, he decided, was not to think about it.  
  
Any of it.  
  
Or he might well and truly go crazy. And that was the last thing he wanted. It wasn't as though he'd had some lovely connection with Heaven and the ineffable, which he was at pains without. It was the knowledge that things were about to change for him.  
  
And that they were about to change, a lot.  
  
~*~*~*~  
  
Crowley frowned at the phone. Debating.  
  
Since the Almost-Apocalypse he'd put distance between himself and his angel.Hold on. Did he just think 'his'? No, bugger, not HIS angel. THE angel. Damn it all. He was quite convinced that it was simply because he'd had quite enough of the Other Side for a d'cade or so, thank you. And that while Hell was pretending he didn't exist at the moment, he knew they'd be poking up to give him some embarrassing punishment sooner or later, and he had no intention of letting Aziraphale have the pleasure of smirking behind those damnamable spectacles of his about it.  
  
When the truth might have been, that after several thousand years, he was finally running out of excuses about why he didn't actually mind that smirk or those spectacles at all.  
  
~*~*~*~  
  
Aziraphale sneezed.  
  
It was a small, quiet sneeze, which for all the world might be described as cute. And he blinked, looking wide eyed before him as though he might catch a glimpse of the offending sniffle. But after a moment, he gave up, and took another sip of his cocoa.  
  
It was alright, and the book had a surprisingly addictive quality to it. He was just beginning to forget that he was so troubled when the tele rang. Disrupting the silence and scaring him half to death.  
  
To death. Yes. That was right. He *could* die now, couldn't he?  
  
But, never the less, he stood, shrugging off the blankets wrapping his slender form and setting the small volume carefully down beside the hot chocolate before dashing across the room to the counter and answering.  
  
"Good," quick check of the watch, "Evening?"  
  
"Angel."  
  
Zira felt his heart jump. Oh dear. That wasn't exactly the reaction he was supposed to have, was it? His pause seemed to upset the being on the other end, who tried again.  
  
"Aziraphale."  
  
"Yes." He admitted to an all too farmiliar voice for the second time that day.  
  
Now the hesitation stemmed from the other end of the line.  
  
"Crowley?"  
  
"Lookit." Came the brisk sound of the demon's voice. "It's been a bit, hasn't it? It gets boring with no one to pester. From the Other Side, I mean. Meet me at the Ritz at, 3, maybe?"  
  
The former angel nearly choaked, causing a pause he could readily identify as an arched eyebrow from the other end. "Uhm. You know, I, don't think-"  
  
"Angel." He was interrupted. "What is wrong?"  
  
It was quite deftly disguised as irritation. Even Crowely was somewhat unaware that it was, in fact, actual concern.  
  
"Not a thing, Dear boy." Aziraphale answered too quickly. Then blinked in surprise. He'd... just lied. Admittedly not very well, but it was a lie none the less.  
  
"Angel." The tone from the other end of the tele warned him that this fact had just skipped right over Crowley's head, and that he was, apparently, in no mood for games.  
  
And so he sighed and made another attempt. "I just. Get rather tired of the Ritz. I mean. Don't you? We've been at it for so long and all and..."  
  
An unimpressed silence.  
  
"And yes, I have something on my mind. Angel business, my dear."  
  
It seemed to do.  
  
"Alright." The demon conceded, "So the Ritz is old. I know a, nice, place. I'm not sure if you've been yet. Meet me at my flat at 2:30 and we'll go together. Sound alright?"  
  
"Yes. Yes, quite." He agreed.  
  
"Good. See you then. Ciao."  
  
And the reciver went dead.  
  
Typical Crowley.  
  
Aziraphale made up his mind right then, that under no circumstances was he going to tell the demon what had happened. Because telling him what had happened, would mean telling him why. And he couldn't tell him why. For the briefest of moments he wondered why it was he couldn't. But the answer came unwelcomingly quick: It would hurt the demon. Maybe just a little. But it would hurt. To know his companion, and, perhaps, friend, had suffered on his account. And besides... Aziraphale was proud.  
  
You might never have known it, beneath the course suit, and the perfectly manicured nails, and the prim and proper British attitude, there still lay the battle angel of old. Who had held a flaming sword, and done battle in the name of the Lord and His people. Who would never submit. And who would not, could not, admit, how utterly helpless he had become over the course of a few seconds.  
  
Now there was only one problem left.  
  
How on earth would he get to Crowley's flat, when he barely knew where it was?  
  
  
~TBC~  
  
  
*Who said shameless promotion for friend? Mee?? O,o Ne'er I say!  
**Mixed from actual powdered chocolate, and a lot of it, milk, and a single, crushed, raspberry. It made the entire thing much more enjoyable in his opinion. 


	3. Given the Circumstances...

She liked America. It was fast and loud and obnoxious, and as close to Hell as you could find on this plane. And she liked it just fine.  
  
Hell never had bothered her much, and she'd come and go as often as the notion struck her. After all, most of America was Hell on a particularly smog-less day. A nice day, if you wanted to call it that. Especially in LA. Which was, currently, where she was. And where she had been for the past decade or so. Excluding the occasional trips 'home.'  
  
Once, she'd been an angel. But she'd followed a friend down, despite the fact that she probably never should have gotten to know him in the first place. But that had been a very long time ago. Though funnily enough, not so long that she couldn't remember what Heaven had been like. And every now and then, despite herself, and how much she actually *did* enjoy her job, she would miss it.  
  
Which annoyed her. And then she'd have to go out and do something wicked to remind herself just where it was that her loyalties lay.  
  
But for the most part, she was quite a pleasant little thing to know.  
  
She was a lawyer. A criminal defense lawyer, to be exact. And she was frightfully good at her job. Especially if you happened to be guilty.   
She kept her hair long and short and black, and her wide heavy-lashed eyes were a peculiar shade of blue. Nearly purple, in fact. She wore red and crimson. And ebony as an afterthought. And not altogether that much of it, when it could be helped.  
  
It has been said, and is quite true, that a Mr. A. Ziraphale, until of late, was the only angel stationed on Earth. This is true. Aziraphale was indeed the only angel stationed on Earth. Crowley, however, was *far* from the only demon. Why only send one, when the world is a fairly large place, with so many opportunities to nudge it's inhabitants in the, wrong, direction? You see, demons have the certain tendency to use everything to their advantage, including human nature. Especially human nature.  
It is, in truth, very easy to be a demon in America.  
Her name, was Aggie. And she liked being a demon just fine.  
  
  
~*~*~*~  
  
  
Aziraphale was pondering. He'd been pondering since just a few moments after he'd replaced the receiver.  
  
That had been at precisely a quarter to 11. It was now coming upon 1:33.  
  
The angel-made-human stole a glance at the clock and moved for the first time in several hours. He got up, went to his chair, picked up both cocoa and book, and returned them to their proper places. Sink and shelf, respectively. All the while, it was this train of thought which ran it's self through his mind, on a little tiny set of toy tracks. Apparently in the attempt to catch it's own caboose:  
  
He was human now. That meant he could no longer merely wish to be somewhere and appear there. This was how he had always gotten to Crowley's flat in the past. He didn't own a car. But he could call a taxi. If he only knew the address.  
  
Oh dear.  
  
Now, had Crowley said 2:00 or 2:30? He was fairly sure it had been 2:30. His mind hadn't been all there at the time. Not that it mattered much. If he intended on getting anywhere at all, he'd best get to it.  
  
Standing, Aziraphale removed his glasses to rub at his cerulean eyes, and received a nasty little surprise when he opened them again. He blinked twice, and put the spectacles back on, shocked to discover that he was quite near sighted without them. He spent the next few seconds staring blankly into wide-eyed space before he shook himself.  
  
'No time for this now.' He chastised himself. 'Not if you expect to arrive on time. Now, get on with you then.'  
  
And on he went, collecting his until-this-moment-highly-unneccisary,-kept-simply-to-appear-normal jacket from it's hook by the door on the way.  
  
Stepping outside reminded him immediately that it was, in no uncertain terms, most certainly the middle of winter, and he hugged himself for warmth. Thus far, his experience with mortality was, less that delightful. And yet...  
  
And yet, Aziraphale had been an angel for just a little over 6000 years now, and that angel optimism doesn't die off so very quickly. Allowing a smile to turn his pale, still perfectly shaped lips, the brunette stepped smartly off the doorstep, and walked briskly down the streets of London. He *would* find the demon's flat. He would.  
  
Somehow.  
  
After all, even humans get a bit of luck now an then, right? 


End file.
